


With all that I've suffered I'm still on this road

by leigh57



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's basically what he figures heaven has to feel like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With all that I've suffered I'm still on this road

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a tiny paragraph of headcanon about how Daryl had never had a backrub and then um. It was more than a paragraph. So that happened. The title is from 'Show Me the River' by Eastmountainsouth.

One night he comes back to the prison after a run (they keep having to go further -- today started before dawn), head pounding, so exhausted he doesn't know how he managed to keep the bike upright. He mumbles a half-assed greeting to Carol, then drops down onto their bunk to pull off his boots. Her head tilted a touch, she studies him for a second before she tugs at the edge of his shirt and says, "Why don't you take this off?"

"Can't believe I'm sayin' this, but I'm too tired to-"

Her laughter cuts him off. "I'm not trying to get you naked."

Why the hell does she want his shirt off then? "You're not?"

"Nope. I'm gonna rub your back." She leans into the wall, hugging her knees. "You hurt your shoulder on the run. I could tell when you walked in here."

He can't help the smile that tugs at the edges of his mouth. Nothing gets by her. And even though he still prefers wearing clothes, even around her (although goddamn, he also really loves every last thing she does to him whenever he takes off his clothes, so the tradeoff is more than worth it), he gingerly unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it, tossing it aside before he just looks at her, waiting for further instructions. He’s never had a backrub in his fuckin’ life.

Her face amused, she bites her lip in a way that makes him wish he wasn’t too tired to lift his arms. "Lay down on your stomach," she says, nodding toward the pillow.

He does, eyes closing automatically, and a second later he feels the weight of her body pressing into his lower back, barely above his ass. She's rubbing something in her hands (it smells kind of fruity and he should probably protest, but he has to admit that he could not fuckin’ care less right now), and then her palms are skimming over his skin, spreading smooth warmth everywhere she touches.

It's basically what he figures heaven has to feel like. After a few soft strokes, she begins to press in with her thumbs, fighting the knotted patch of muscles that extends from the base of his neck, down the right side of his spine, all the way to the top of his ass. There's not a single movement of her fingers that doesn't make him want to say, _Thank you_ every time he breathes out.

In only a few minutes he can feel himself drifting, as her thumbs migrate over his shoulders and into the exhausted muscles of his arms. "'M'gonna fall asleep if you don't stop," he mumbles, wiggling to get his feet more comfortable on the bed.

"That's the idea," she replies, her voice filled with such obvious affection that he can feel the now-familiar tightness heating his chest.

So he stops fighting, and falls asleep with her straddling him, gently working the muscles in his lower back.

*************************

The next time she returns from watch so exhausted that _she's_ the one who can't stand up straight, he puts down the comic book he borrowed from Carl, grins up at her, and says, "Take off your shirt."

Her face quirks in an adorable tired squint. "Daryl, I don't want-"

He shakes his head, smiling. "I'm gonna see if I'm any good at this backrub thing."

She looks surprised, but she shrugs and pulls her shirt and tank top over her head.

"Bra, too," he says. "Promise I won't touch."

Smirking, she takes it off and throws herself on the bed, but not before he catches enough of a glimpse to make him glad that neither of them have watch for the next two days. He rubs his hands together to make sure they're not cold, then goes for it (even though he's never done this before in his life), hands smooth over her naked skin a few times before he starts in with insistent pressure from his thumbs. He tries to mimic what she did to him a few days ago, because _holy shit_ it felt good.

When he hits a tight spot right below her left shoulder blade, she gasps and winces, eyes widening until he can see the bright blue even in the half-light.

His hands still instantly. "Shit, did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head and mumbles into the pillow, "Relax, it's fine. I shoveled by the fence for a couple hours this afternoon and everything's tense."

So he starts in again, and this time the sigh she releases is one of pleasure. It’s so strange, so foreign to him, this kind of connection -- the way he can sense his own tension draining away with each contented noise that escapes her.

He keeps going, hands warm and gentle over the gorgeous pale expanse of her back, his eyes tracking the constellations of freckles that he loves to trace with his tongue and the raised white strips of scar tissue that make him want Ed alive for one minute, just so he can experience the satisfaction of killing him again.

He can feel it in his fingertips, the way the remaining tension slides from her body, her tired muscles giving in to the insistent pressure of his hands. Her eyelashes flutter and slip shut, she hugs the pillow a little closer, and after another couple minutes, her breathing slows down, evening into a calm, soothing rhythm.

He knows he could stop now, that she's well on her way to being deeply asleep. (They've been sharing a bed for something like four months, but it still feels like a gift, like the most perfect present he never knew he wanted, every time she pulls on a frayed tank top and slides over toward the wall, holding the sheet up for him while she makes some offhand comment like, _We should see if we can find any crayons on the next run, ‘cause the kids have been asking_ , or _How'd you even eat that bread I made for dinner? It was awful!_ )

But he's not quite ready to let go of the moment, of how good it feels to touch her without asking for anything back, of watching that face he loves (the face that spends too much time lined with concern) peaceful and completely relaxed against the shitty worn pillowcase.

It’s only when he starts from a half-doze and almost bangs his head against the top bunk that he gives in, lifting the sheet and quietly fitting himself against her sleeping body -- hand on her thigh, mouth on her shoulder.

Exhausted as he is, he still listens to her breathe for another few minutes before he checks for his crossbow one more time and closes his eyes.


End file.
